Bogus Bondsman

by Paul Colt

  U.P. Hotel

  Cane crossed the lobby from the dinning room. The desk clerk waved a Western Union wire.

  “Mr. Cane, I was about to run this up to your room.”

  Cane tore it open and read.

  Bond reported at Laramie Cattleman’s Bank.

  Proceed a pace thitherward.

  —Crook

  “Is Mr. Longstreet in?”

  “I believe he is, sir, room 203.”

  Cane took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. He knocked at the door at the head of the stairs.

  “Coming.” Footfalls followed the muffled response. The door swung open. Longstreet blinked sleepy-eyed, dressed in britches and braces.

  “Bad night?” Cane handed him the telegram. “If we hurry we can catch the noon train.”

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  “Meet me in the lobby.”

  They left the muted glow of the lobby for the bright morning bustle of Sixteenth Street. Cane led the way west to the depot.

  “I’ve got a hunch,” Cane said.

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re following the railroad west.”

  “Could be, what do we do?”

  “You go to Laramie to find out what happened.”

  “And you?”

  “I go to Rawlins to see what might happen next.”

  Laramie

  Longstreet gazed out the window as the train slowed. Two throaty hoots announced Laramie Station. He gathered his traveling case.

  “If you need to reach me, wire the Western Union office in Rawlins,” Cane said.

  Longstreet nodded to the window across the aisle and the two-story clapboard building beyond. “You can reach me at the Laramie Hotel.”

  He headed up the aisle to the car door. He stepped off the platform and started up the short block walk to the hotel. The hotel desk clerk checked him into room 202 and directed him across the street and up the block to the Cattleman’s Bank. He dropped his valise in the room and made it to the bank just before closing.

  The portly banker with bushy white muttonchops introduced himself as Edwin Sinclair. He recounted a familiar story they’d already heard in Cheyenne.

  “Sorry I can’t be more helpful, Mr. Longstreet. You’ll forgive me if I take some comfort from all the investigative interest in our loss.”

  “Oh? What interest?”

  “Well, yourself of course and the Pinkerton agency was here a few days ago.”

  “Pinkerton?”

  “Yes, though I must say I thought their approach somewhat unusual.”

  “Unusual, how so?”

  He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “The Pinkerton agent was a woman.”

  “Samantha Maples.”

  “Why, yes, how did you know?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve made her acquaintance.”

  The desk clerk glanced up as Longstreet approached the counter.

  “Are you finding everything to your satisfaction, sir?”

  He nodded. “Is Miss Maples in?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know and if I did I shouldn’t be at liberty to say.”

  “I see. Perhaps you would be kind enough to deliver a message to her.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Longstreet scratched a note

  Dinner at six?

  Meet in the lobby.

  —Beau

  He folded the slip, handed it to the clerk, and went to his room.

  Six O’Clock

  She swept down the steps to the lobby, the picture of modesty in a plain gray traveling gown that fit her to exquisite effect. Longstreet waited, holding an expression intended to give nothing away. She smiled the disarming smile of one caught in a mild deception.

  She crossed the lobby and patted his cheek. “Beau Longstreet, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to Laramie?”

  “You forgot to say goodbye.”

  “Urgent message and you were sleeping so peacefully. I’m sure you understand. What brings you to Laramie?”

  “I’m sure you know.”

  She lowered dark lashes. “You have the advantage of me.”

  “I doubt that. Urgent message, you understand.”

  She smiled at a bit of innuendo. “I do. And I must say I’m pleased you are here. It puts a fresh light on this frightfully dreary little town. Now, are we going to have a drink and some supper or are we going to stand here and listen to our stomachs growl?”

  He offered his arm. “I’m told the café next door is passably good.”

  “Now there’s a ringing endorsement if I ever heard one.”

  “You’re the one who said ‘dreary.’ ”

  She squeezed his arm. “I suppose I shouldn’t, but for some reason I find you amusing.”

  “Irresistible charm.”

  “Yes, of course, that must be it.”

  Denver

  Penny’s shift ended at three o’clock that Saturday. I walked her home with a stop for an ice cream sundae. Nothing like a little caramel and fudge to smooth over a rough spot that could scarcely be explained by saying, “it’s just the colonel being the colonel,” whether it was true or not. I let the caramel sweeten her mood and prudently changed the subject.

  “It’s finished.”

  Her expression registered an uncertainty that bespoke somewhat more than curiosity.

  “What’s finished?”

  “The book, the Sam Bass book.”

  Her expression softened. “That’s wonderful. What do you plan to do now?”

  “I’m submitting it to a publishing house in New York.”

  “That’s so exciting, Robert. They’ll publish it then?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Oh, Robert, they will. I know they will.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your confidence. I hope you’re right.”

  We exchanged spoonfuls of sundae, Penny getting a taste of my fudge and she giving me a taste of her caramel. It was a little ritual we did most sundae times. To me in some symbolic way it made a metaphor of us. The combined tastes more savory than either alone. I could imagine. We did it more owing to the fact that she liked it than to my imaginings. Those dreams I thought best left to my private yearnings.

  “They’ve made a moving picture show of Mr. Twain’s book Tom Sawyer. It’s showing at the Bijou. Would you care to see the matinee tomorrow?”

  She nodded for another spoon of fudge.

  “Robert, wouldn’t it be ever so grand if one day they made a moving picture of your book?”

  “It would be grand, but let’s not put our cart so far ahead of the horse.”

  “Is it, Robert?”

  “Is it what?”

  “Our cart?”

  I felt my face warm. Our cart, I’d said it to be sure without thinking the implication. There was the question. Was it? It seemed it must. “It is.”

  She took my hands in hers and gave her Mona Lisa a rosy glow.

  “For the moment let’s see how moving pictures treat Mr. Twain’s cart.”

  She laughed that throaty mischievous laugh of hers.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rawlins

  Cane stepped off the train to the depot platform in the gathering gloom of early evening. The evening breeze struck him full in the face. Sheep! Why would anyone put up with such a foul-smelling business? He could think of far better ways to make a living than husbanding stinking woolies with their dips and urine and musty shearing. A porter handling freight directed him up the street to the hotel. He found a room, some supper, and an early night.

  Cane arrived at the Herder’s Bank of Rawlins the next morning as a birdlike banker with pomade hair, waxed mustache, and dark suit turned the window sign to open promptly at nine o’clock. He waited for the banker to unlatch the front door and stepped inside.

  “Good morning, Travis McCreedy.” He extended a hand. “How may we be of assistance?”

  “Briscoe Cane, Great Western Detective League. I
’m here about a bond.”

  “A bond?”

  “A Texas & Pacific Railroad bond, likely in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars.”

  The banker’s thin brows lifted in recognition.

  “You’ve seen one then.”

  He nodded, sensing something amiss. “Detective league you said?”

  Cane nodded.

  “Perhaps we should have a seat at my desk.” He led the way across the sun-splashed polished lobby floor to a desk beside the vault.

  “Please have a seat.”

  Cane took the offered chair. McCreedy steepled his fingers.

  “Is the bond stolen?”

  “We are following the trail of a woman who uses them to arrange letters of credit.”

  “A woman.”

  “Has she been here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you provide her a letter of credit?”

  “As a matter of fact we did. A Texas & Pacific bond is an impeccable security.”

  “I’m sure it is, unless it’s forged.”

  The banker’s eyes shot round.

  “Do you still have the bond?”

  He nodded.

  “May I see it?”

  The man got to his feet ashen-faced and went to the vault. He handed it across the desk, his hand shaking noticeably.

  “May I have this?”

  “Are you sure this one is forged?”

  “The paying agent is Salmon Chase in New York. You can wire the cashier there if you like. He’s familiar with the circumstances surrounding these. I can come back for it tomorrow if you prefer.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Escobar stroked the thin line of dark beard at his chin. He watched the tall, lean stranger. He’d happened by the bank that morning and became curious over the early arriving customer. When the banker went to the vault to retrieve what looked like the bond, his suspicions grew stronger. Someone was on to them. The banker would soon discover the letter of credit had been cashed.

  The stranger stood to shake the banker’s hand. Escobar crossed the street and picked out a shop window to study. He watched the stranger leave the bank in the window reflection. The man crossed the street. Escobar watched his reflection mount the boardwalk off to his right and turn in the direction of the depot. Escobar watched out of the corner of his eye. He gave him a half-block start before following along behind.

  Cane went to the Western Union desk at the depot. He scratched out a wire to Longstreet.

  She’s moving west along the U.P. line.

  Evanston and Green River are next.

  You take Evanston.

  —Cane

  Escobar approached the Western Union counter. He made a show of examining the train schedule, listening to the stranger at the nearby ticket counter buy a ticket for Green River. He cocked an ear as the Western Union telegrapher tapped his key. The stranger was definitely on to them. More than that, he did not work alone. He stepped up to the Western Union counter and wrote his own short message.

  Green River

  A soft rap at the door lifted the lacy veil of sleep. The room resolved golden in late afternoon sun. Satisfied at having obtained yet another letter of credit from the Boatman’s Bank of Green River that morning, she’d dozed off counting the sums she’d collected in this little caper. She fell asleep in the comfort of knowing there was more where that came from.

  “Who is it?”

  “Telegram for Miss Antoine.” The raspy voice declared adolescent male.

  Cecile glanced at the gown tossed over a chair weighing the effort to make herself decent. “Leave it under the door.”

  A yellow foolscap slipped under the door. No footfalls departed beyond the door. The lad waited. She rewarded him with squeaking bedsprings as she fumbled in her purse for a coin. She rose, slid it under the door, and picked up the telegram as the messenger retreated down the hall. She sat on the bed and slit the envelope with a fingernail. The message could scarcely be more cryptic.

  Move on.

  —E.

  The change in plans suggested something may be afoot. She’d known all along it was only a matter of time before the authorities caught on to the scheme. She’d hoped for more time before the need to take evasive steps arose. She eyed her gown. Oh bother, Evanston tomorrow. She lay back to the complaint of the bedsprings and drifted off to rest for supper.

  Chicago

  The Counselor hurried along Michigan Avenue, braced by a strong southwesterly breeze laden with stockyard scent. On days like today he found the city offensively agrarian. He mopped a light sheen of perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief as he climbed the stone steps to the post office. He checked the post box every few days now that his client’s program was in operation. Today the box yielded a second payment order. He crossed the sun-soaked marble floor to a counter set aside for preparing postings. He opened a battered leather case, drew out a plain brown envelope, and transferred the payment order to it. He turned to the service counter, slid the parcel to the postal clerk, paid the postage, and left. The transfer completed in less than five minutes. Two down, ten to go.

  Green River

  By the time Cane reached Green River the following day, the Boatman’s Bank had closed. The sleepy little river town owed its existence to providing a junction for river commerce and the railroad. Eastbound and westbound passengers and drayage found their way upstream and downstream from the combined rail station and river port. Throw in the teamsters who assisted the barge traffic and the town had a commercial life of its own. Cane took a room at the hotel, never noticing the dark-skinned man with pockmarked, hawk-sharp features watching him from afar.

  Escobar waited for the investigator to check into the hotel. He watched while he climbed the stairs to his room. At the registration counter he took a room for himself noting the last guest to register, one Briscoe Cane, could be found in room 207. He let himself in to a room on the third floor and puzzled over the problem of what to do about their pursuer.

  Assuming Cecile had done her work before leaving town, this Briscoe Cane would find another banker with another bogus bond. He’d come to Green River with no obvious clue, unless he’d guessed they were following the Union Pacific rail route. If he had, he’d be off to Evanston as soon as he left the bank. He needed to slow him down, but how? He ruled out gun play, too great a risk of being caught. He fingered his blade. He’d have to get close. The man looked old. Still he had a competence about him. Men didn’t stay in this line of work past the time they could acquit themselves satisfactorily. Any that did, didn’t last long. This one did not strike him as the type. No, in close quarters, anything could happen. He needed something unexpected. He needed an accident, fatal if possible, debilitating at the very least. He stroked his mustache and nodded slowly. It was a long shot, but it might provide exactly what he needed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Shoshone came down from the Wind River country to trade with the river men. Escobar noticed the camp east of town when the train rolled in. It was a short walk out of town to their clustered lodges. Camp dogs announced his arrival. He signed his desire to trade to the young man who greeted him. The young man thought the request strange, but led the white man to the lodge of a shaman who might assist him.

  The shaman, Winter Grass, greeted the scarred one at his lodge. He listened to the man’s request. The man did not offer trade goods. He offered gold coins that might be used to buy goods from the river men. He accepted the man’s offer.

  “Return at sunset.”

  Three hours later Escobar found the shaman sitting at his lodge fire; a leather sack secured with a thong rested beside him.

  Escobar paid twenty dollars in gold pieces, accepted the sack, and disappeared in the gathering gloom.

  Evanston

  Longstreet stepped out of Essex House to the boardwalk fronting the hotel. The hollow in his belly reminded him that it had been a long time since a light breakfast early that morning. He loo
ked up and down the street searching the blue evening shadows for the likely sign of a restaurant. He didn’t see any obvious choices, but he did see a fine figure of a woman half a block west. Oh well, he had to go somewhere. He strolled along behind her dividing his attention between the need of a meal and the sway of her hips.

  She paused in the middle of the next block to admire something in the window of a storefront. As he approached he could see she was reading a menu.

  “Anything look good?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Appraising hazel eyes glistened in window light. He smiled.

  “As a matter of fact.”

  “Something special?”

  “One never knows before one tries.” She smiled, her complexion cream. She stepped aside to let him read.

  “Roast beef.”

  “I might have guessed.”

  “Really. That obvious?”

  “It is.”

  “And you?”

  “Petite portion.”

  “I might have guessed.”

  “Touché.”

  “Shall we?”

  “We’ve not been formally introduced.”

  “My apologies, Beauregard Longstreet at your service.” He made a slight bow.

  Cecile thought quickly. “Cora Collier, Mr. Longstreet.”

  “My friends call me, Beau, Miss Collier.”

  “I’m sure they do. How do you know it’s miss?”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Collier.” He looked at his shoes. “I meant no harm.”

  A musical laugh caught somewhere at the back of her throat. “Miss it is, if it matters.”

  He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Shall we then?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  He held the door. A waiter in a starched apron led them to a candlelit corner table. The waiter held her chair.

  “May I offer you a beverage?”

  Longstreet deferred to Cora Collier.

  “Do you have a sherry?”

  The waiter nodded.

  “Make that two.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  She tilted the point of her chin and lowered long lashes over those crystalline eyes. “Longstreet, a rather distinguished name in the south, isn’t it?”

  “That would be my cousin’s doing.”